He Wasn't Quite A Good Man
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: John knew Sebastian Moran from the British army. They were comrades. It's a bit strange to think he's now John's sniper-assassin. Oh, and Sherlock's alive, too. What in bloody hell is next? .:. a drabble that should probably be a full fic. oops.


**A/N: Because of this: nightmare-kisser. tumblr. com/post/19585890929/moraniarty-go-away-anderson-dreamrightnow**

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><p>"What do you want this time, Mycroft?" John sighs as he sits down across from the older Holmes brother in a limousine. They are taking a drive around the city; apparently, being in any building isn't safe enough for their discussion. John resists rolling his eyes. He's exhausted and not in the mood to deal with this man. He's why Sherlock is in the ground right now, all because he wanted to get Moriarty to talk.<p>

"There isn't much time to explain fully, but first I must ask: does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?"

John blinks and stares at Mycroft for a long time. Then, "Of course it does. He was in my regiment, I _knew_ him. He saved me from getting shot in a worse place than my shoulder."

"Then it seems a bit off, doesn't it, that he's assigned to you as a sniper meant to kill you if my brother hadn't committed suicide?" Mycroft informs the ex-army doctor.

John shakes his head. He stifles a noise concerning the mention of Sherlock and swallows to clear his throat. He looks up again. "No, not Sebastian…" He frowns. His voice sounds scared. "You're serious?"

Mycroft's eyes are cold and intense. He doesn't so much as nod or move a brow.

He's serious.

John swallows hard for a second time. "…But how? _Why_? He was a good man, he –"

"No, he wasn't," Mycroft relays a tad regretfully, and tosses a thick file folder bound in elastic onto John's lap. "A history of aggression, gets a thrill from killing, and has been confirmed as one of Moriarty's top men. One of his assassins."

John's entire body grows cold.

"And I've recently discovered that he's being hunted down on account of the death contract hanging above your head, John. And I finally had some of my eyes across London get a photograph of who's doing the chasing."

He carefully slides out a blown-up photo, blurred but recognizable, and turns it slowly around to face John.

Shaking, John takes the photo into his hands. "No… it can't be…"

"I assure that it is," Mycroft whispers. "And no, this isn't an edited photo, aside from sharpening the focus a bit. It's real."

"Sherlock," John breathes.

Mycroft nods. "Yes, it would seem he faked his death in order to call off the shootings. And before you ask, no, the plural of the word is not a slip of the tongue. There were other assassins, other targets, but those assassins have been taken out by Sherlock and he is on the last one, your friend from the military. I had no idea of any of this until recently, and I assure you, had I know all along my brother was alive, I would have told you."

John puts down the photo, clutches Sebastian's file in his lap with both hands, and stares at the floor of the limo. "I believe you."

Mycroft crosses his legs and puts his folded hands atop his knee. "So, then, what action would you like to take? I can give you authority, as long as your actions are within reason. Your participation in this would be most helpful, especially concerning Sherlock's and Moran's habits. I know most of Sherlock's, but I haven't lived with him since we were children, so they have changed, I'm sure. And I don't know more about Moran than what's in his file."

"I'll give you everything you need. But what I would like to do is find Sherlock first. He must have more leads on Sebastian's whereabouts than we do. And besides, I think he's earned a swift kicking in the ass for what he's pulled," John grinds out.

"Fair enough," Mycroft smirks. "Then let's start there. Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Watson."

And they pull up in front of 221B, and John nearly chokes at the sight of it again after these few years, but he inhales and nods, stepping out into the dim sunshine of London, file and photo in hand, and turns about-face to greet old home with a new spark of determination in his eyes.


End file.
